


Heated

by sciencefictioness



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BDSM, Comeplay, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Katsuki Yuuri, Omega Victor Nikiforov, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rimming, Sex Toys, Teasing, dom Yuuri, sub viktor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 00:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14508384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Why would he want to skip a heat when he has Yuuri to work him through it?  When he has Yuuri to coax him open and fuck him rough until he can’t stand anymore.  To rub his back and bathe him and feed him, tell Viktor how good he’s being as he takes Yuuri’s cock.There’s my pretty boy, just like that.The mere idea has him warm all over, and he blinks up at Yuuri through wide pupils, wondering if Yuuri will take care of him before he leaves.  It seems as though Yuuri can tell what he’s thinking, though, because his fingers go tight in Viktor’s hair. He tugs, coaxing Viktor up into a sitting position on the couch, and forces him to arch his neck back until his throat is exposed.  Pulls him up higher, and Viktor strains to hold himself in place, to be still, to stay where Yuuri has put him.He’s wet, and he wants, and it’s all he can do not to whine.





	Heated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiokushitaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiokushitaka/gifts).



> Y'all can thank my spouse kio, who said 'what about sub omega vik wearing a lingerie version of [this](http://kiokushitaka.tumblr.com/post/172713447340/as-always-i-am-fashionably-late-to-the-pecho) and getting punished during his heat' and I realized what a fucking amateur I am to have never considered these things before, honestly.
> 
> If you think Viktor Nikiforov wouldn't have [some shit like this](https://www.alexisnicolewhite.com/chaise-lounge-sofa-cover/indoor-chaise-lounge/) in his house, you're wrong and I can't help you. Also, given the historical implications of [fainting couches in general,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fainting_couch) it's doubly appropriate. Please enjoy this, friends.

“You’ll call me right away if you feel it coming on before I get home.”

  


It isn’t a question, it’s an order, but Viktor huffs anyway and throws himself down on the couch, one leg tossed gracelessly over the back while the other foot thumps onto the floor.

  


“You could just stay here with me instead,” Viktor says, singsong and smiling.  He knows the answer is no before he suggests it, but can’t help trying. 

  


A day in bed with Yuuri sounds much more appealing than spending it alone, achy and restless and waiting for his heat to strike.  Yuuri makes an unhappy noise through his teeth and crosses over to where Viktor is pouting to pet gently through his hair.

  


“We’ve talked about this,” he says, and it’s true, they have.

  


It might not be today when his heat comes.  It could be tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, and Yuuri really can’t afford to miss any more training than is absolutely necessary.  Viktor’s cycles are irregular at best, but suppressants have never agreed with him, and he hasn’t taken them at all since he sealed his mate bond with Yuuri.  Even if they didn’t make him irritable or give him headaches it wouldn’t matter.

  


Why would he want to skip a heat when he has Yuuri to work him through it?  When he has Yuuri to coax him open and fuck him rough until he can’t stand anymore.  To rub his back and bathe him and feed him, tell Viktor how good he’s being as he takes Yuuri’s cock.

  


_ There’s my pretty boy, just like that. _

  


The mere idea has him warm all over, and he blinks up at Yuuri through wide pupils, wondering if Yuuri will take care of him before he leaves.  It seems as though Yuuri can tell what he’s thinking, though, because his fingers go tight in Viktor’s hair. He tugs, coaxing Viktor up into a sitting position on the couch, and forces him to arch his neck back until his throat is exposed.  Pulls him up higher, and Viktor strains to hold himself in place, to be still, to stay where Yuuri has put him.

  


He’s wet, and he wants, and it’s all he can do not to whine.

  


Yuuri leans down and scrapes his teeth gently over Viktor’s scent glands, over the dark line of his mate mark.  Not the wide, bright red streak an alpha would leave on their partner, but bruise violet and narrow.

  


An omega’s claim.  Yuuri’s claim, and Viktor holds his breath, and presses his thighs together.

  


“You’re going to behave yourself,” Yuuri says, fisting Viktor’s hair even tighter.  The sting of it goes right to Viktor’s cock, and he moans without meaning to, unable to keep the sound back.  

  


Usually Yuuri is only like this when they do scenes together, but all that changes when Viktor gets hit with preheat symptoms.

  


When his heat is on him Viktor needs to be Yuuri’s good boy all the time.  It soothes something in him, leaves him calmer. Helps him settle, and Yuuri eases Viktor’s hand away from where it’s creeping down between his thighs of its own volition.

  


“You’re going to stay here and take it easy.  You’re going to drink lots of water, and rest, and you’re going to call me the instant your cycle starts seriously coming on.”  Viktor nods eagerly, because Yuuri just wants to take care of him, to keep him from hurting himself again.

  


A few months before he’d tried to wait for Yuuri to get home after his training and ended up feverish and heat sick.  Dehydrated and delirious, mumbling nonsense in Russian, barely able to walk. Bonded omegas aren’t built to withstand heats without their mates, Viktor less so than most, the deprivation setting in astonishingly fast in Yuuri’s absence.  Ever since then Yuuri is wary of leaving Viktor alone close to his cycle, but it isn’t practical for him to stay home for days on end for his preheat.

  


Not when Viktor’s heat will trigger Yuuri’s own without fail, lengthening the whole ordeal by hours, if not longer.

  


“And,” Yuuri says as his fingers close around Viktor’s wrist, pressing it back into the couch to hold it there, “you absolutely will not touch yourself.”

  


Viktor whines again, flexing his wrist against Yuuri’s grip as he squirms in place, thighs clenching with the need for friction.  It’s for his own good, Viktor knows. Getting himself off without Yuuri there during a cycle only brings on his heat sickness faster, but that doesn’t mean he has to like being told he’s not allowed.

  


Yuuri’s knee comes down between Viktor’s, forcing his thighs to part.  He leans into Viktor’s space, eyes lit up with something dangerous, and the hand he has on Viktor’s wrist shifts.  Yuuri tangles their fingers together and presses his mouth to the soft skin just beneath Viktor’s ear. Kisses him there, and whispers, quiet but commanding.

  


“Say it,” he demands, and Viktor nods.

  


“Yes, sir.”

  


Yuuri’s teeth sink into his throat, brief but sharp, a wordless warning.  Viktor shivers, tension dripping out of him until he’s lax in Yuuri’s embrace, utterly submissive.

  


“You’re going to be good for me.”

  


“I’ll- I’ll be good, I will.”

  


Yuuri nuzzles into his neck, and it feels like worship, how he lingers there.

  


“Good boy.”

  


He kisses Viktor’s cheek and stands, releasing his hair to hold his jaw instead.  Yuuri runs his thumb roughly over Viktor’s bottom lip, tugging it to the side before stepping away entirely.

  


“I’ll call you, okay?”

  


Yuuri says it with a bright smile and an airy wave.  Cheery, lighthearted.

  


As though he wasn’t just owning Viktor in every possible way, and then he’s out the door and off to the rink.

  


Viktor catches his breath, and swears, something colorful and imaginative in Russian that would have even Yurio impressed.

  


His fingers come up to trace the bite Yuuri left in his neck, and he shudders, and goes to run a bath.

  


-

  


It isn’t entirely his fault.

  


It’s what Viktor tells himself as he comes over his fingers, naked in bed with a low fever  simmering under his skin, sweat already matting his hair in places. 

  


Yuuri has been gone a few hours, has already called to check on Viktor twice, and really, he should have noticed his phone was almost dead.  He hadn’t, and by the time he realizes he’s dripping slick and overheated and desperate, he can’t stop himself. Viktor he plugs his phone in, and buries his face in Yuuri’s pillow, and takes himself in hand.

  


It doesn’t help.  

  


It never helps when he’s like this, and when his phone finally turns on with a tiny sliver of red on the battery indicator, he’s whining low in the back of his throat with come still warm on his knuckles.

  


Yuuri answers on the third ring, breathless, like he’s in the middle of his routine, or part way through a run.

  


“Vitka?  You okay?”

  


_ “Yuuri,”  _ he whimpers, and it’s a confession, the way it comes out.  There is a long beat of silence, and Viktor can  _ see  _ Yuuri’s eyes narrowing, his head cocking to the side, his brows furrowing with worry.  

  


“There’s something ready for you in the box.  I’m on my way, okay? I’ll be there in ten.”

  


Yuuri hangs up with a click, and it would seem rude if Viktor didn’t know better.  

  


Didn’t know Yuuri would be home at the speed of light, running frantically through the streets of St. Petersburg like a man possessed.

  


Warmth blooms in Viktor’s belly, and he wipes his hand off haphazardly on the sheets and glances over to the wooden box sitting on their dresser.  Innocuous, if not for the Pavlovian way Viktor’s body is conditioned to respond to it, mouth watering in anticipation. He bites his lip and walks across the room, tracing the twisting filigree inlaid on the lid before opening the hasp to see what’s waiting for him.

  


There’s clothing inside, as finely made as anything Viktor owns, laid out carefully on red velvet like a gift.

  


A gift, only it isn’t one.

  


It’s the opposite of how things usually worked.  Lingerie was a reward on most days, not a punishment.  Yuuri knows that Viktor likes to dress for him, likes to be praised for how he looks trussed up in silk before Yuuri fucks it off of him.

  


Except wearing any kind of clothing during his heat is miserable, no matter how soft the fabric, and what Yuuri has chosen for him looks like a specific kind of torture.

  


The sweater is pastel blue, cashmere, plush under his fingers as he picks it up.  It wouldn’t be anything special if not for the large swath of cloth cut out of the chest.  A heart, designed to put the wearer’s chest on display, and Viktor doesn’t have to pull it on to know the edges of the cutout will be perfectly positioned to tease at his nipples.  Underneath the sweater is a pair of panties, gauzy and insubstantial, feather light. They’re beautiful, the exact same shade as the sweater, intricate lace with a tiny bow on top.

  


They’ll ruin the instant Viktor puts them on, but he doesn’t have time to mourn the loss.  Yuuri will be there soon, and Viktor is both grateful and nervous.

  


He’s heat sick.  It’s not severe, but Viktor is dizzy and hot, and it’s not going to get any better until Yuuri scent marks him.  So early in the fever it won’t take much, just a few brushes of Yuuri’s wrist on his throat, or his thighs. The sooner he gets home the sooner Viktor’s symptoms will ease back into his regular heat, and there are few things in life that he enjoys more than spending his cycle with Yuuri.

  


Especially when Yuuri’s own kicks in, and they’re both lost in the sway of it.

  


But Viktor’s also in trouble.  He hasn’t been seriously punished during a heat for quite a while, but he hasn’t forgotten the last time, and it isn’t something he’s ready to relive.  Yuuri will make everything worth it in the end, he always does, but Viktor doesn’t like being in trouble. The knowledge that he’s misbehaved makes him whine in the back of his throat, but there’s nothing he can do about it now except try and please Yuuri.

  


He dons the panties first, tugging them up over his wet thighs and into place.  They’re soaked almost immediately, slick drenching the thin fabric, silk going dark between his legs.  It’s unpleasant. His instincts rile against it, and Viktor’s hands itch to take them off right away.

  


The omega in him doesn’t want any kind of barrier there, doesn’t want clothing in the way.  

  


Wants Yuuri to be able to bend him over and take him without pause.

  


But more than that he wants to be good, so Viktor leaves them on, damp silk sticking to his skin, cock hard and straining against the fabric.

  


The sweater is next, deceptively delicate as he slides it over his head, adjusting the heart cutout until it sits just right on his chest, and oh,  _ fuck. _

  


Every inch of it is agony.    

  


It isn’t itchy, or uncomfortable in any way that Viktor can put into words.  He just needs it  _ off,  _ needs it off  _ now.   _ Needs to be bare for Yuuri, and it clings to his arms, the collar coming up high on his throat, edges of the heart rubbing over his nipples until they’re peaked and oversensitive.

  


Viktor whines again, palms running up the sleeves and across his chest in frustration as he fights to urge to claw at the wool.

  


A wave of dizziness washes over him, heat pulsing through him like a knife, need throbbing within Viktor until it’s all he can focus on.  Total emptiness, the desperate urge to be filled, and Viktor stumbles into the living room towards the door.

  


His kneeler is already there, a square of padded black leather on the floor a few feet inside the entrance, but Viktor hadn’t noticed it before then.

  


Yuuri must have put it there first thing this morning before Viktor got up, and something inside him goes taut with emotion.

  


Yuuri taking care of him in spite of his disobedience, and Viktor falls to his knees on the leather just as Yuuri’s keys jingle in the door.

  


He arranges himself into seiza, sitting up straight, toes pointed with his hands clasped behind his back.  Chin high, head tilted to the side to expose his throat.

  


Perfect submission, even in his imperfection, and when the door swings wide he lets his eyes flutter shut.

  


There is a flurry of activity that Viktor can hear but not see.  The clatter of Yuuri hanging his keys up on the wall, the rustle of him taking off his jacket, the muted thump as he kicks his shoes into their cubby.

  


Then Yuuri sighs and crouches; grips Viktor’s jaw, his thumb slipping into Viktor’s mouth to hold him in place.  He forces Viktor’s head further to the side, and there’s gentle pressure on Viktor’s mark, the touch familiar in the best way.

  


Yuuri slides his wrist over Viktor’s glands, and the relief is stark and immediate.  The overwhelming warmth he’s feeling fades back, dizziness abating almost entirely, the dull pain behind his eyes receding into nothing.

  


The drugging presence of his mate curing his ills, and Viktor leans into the touch with a quiet whimper, and lets it wash over him.

  


“Vitka,” Yuuri says quietly, and Viktor opens his eyes, blinking slowly up at him.  He furrows his brows and lays a palm flat on Viktor’s forehead, keeping it there for a few seconds before moving to press two fingers into Viktor’s mark.  Not scenting, but checking his pulse, and Yuuri’s frown slowly transforms into something less pronounced.

  


“Better?” Yuuri asks as he withdraws his thumb from Viktor’s mouth, and Viktor nods, even if it feels like a lie.  He’s not better, not really. Won’t be better until Yuuri is buried in him, his teeth in Viktor’s neck, Viktor’s knees slung over his shoulders.

  


But Yuuri is asking about the heat sickness, not the heat, and it’s all but gone already, so Viktor mumbles out a response.

  


“Yes.  I’m fine, now, Yuuri, I-  I’m sorry,” he says, because it never hurts, and maybe he can get out of this with some puppy eyes and an earnest apology.  “It’s not my fault! My phone died, I couldn’t call you right away, and-”

  


_ “Vitka,”  _ Yuuri says, and there is no give in his voice, no place for Viktor to go with his begging and excuses, “what did I tell you?”

  


“To behave myself,” Viktor answers, because Yuuri told him a lot of things, but it all boils down to this.  Viktor, misbehaving.

  


Disobeying.

  


“And did you?” Yuuri asks, and Viktor shakes his head, Yuuri’s fingers moving from his jaw to sink in his hair.

  


“No, sir.”

  


“And what happened?”  Yuuri strokes through his hair, and it’s an absent gesture, something Viktor is positive Yuuri doesn’t even realize he’s doing.  Viktor will take it, will take all the contact he can get for as long as he can get it, because when Yuuri starts punishing him in earnest there will none. 

  


“I- I made myself heat sick.”  

  


Yuuri closes to distance between them to press a kiss on Viktor’s cheek.  It’s brief, and light, but loaded with affection.

  


Enough to carry Viktor through whatever might come, and when Yuuri moves away, his expression is serious.

  


“I need to be able to trust you to take care of yourself when I’m not here.  Give me a color.”

  


Viktor can call red.

  


Viktor can call red, and Yuuri will give him exactly what he wants.  What he needs, really, his cycle already on him so heavily he can feel slick dripping onto the leather beneath him.  Can smell it in the air, the raw lust pouring off him.

  


Yuuri will give him exactly what he wants, but there is more to this than instant gratification.

  


There is the unbridled satisfaction of taking whatever punishment Yuuri sees fit to give him, and pushing through to the other side.

  


Of being good for Yuuri, always.

  


“Green,” Viktor says, and Yuuri smiles.

  


“There’s my good boy.  Put your kneeler in front of my chair.  Sit pretty and wait for me.”

  


Yuuri disappears into their bedroom without another word, and Viktor wobbles to his feet, taking the kneeler with him.  Yuuri’s chair is a dark purple suede chaise lounge, and Viktor positions himself where he knows Yuuri wants him and gets settled.  Kneels, hands behind his back, palms closed over the inside of his forearms. Box position, if he was being tied, except there’s nothing to hold him in place.  It would be easier if there were ropes to fall back on, to fight against, because there’s no telling how long he’ll be there.

  


Sometimes Yuuri likes to make him wait.  Viktor isn’t patient, and it’s hard for him to sit still, but thankfully this isn’t one of those times.  Yuuri emerges a couple of minutes later, totally naked with a blanket in one hand and a toy in the other.  He spreads the blanket over the lounge before sitting down on it, and Viktor’s thighs clench at sight of the dildo in his hand.

  


It’s glittery pink silicone, big enough that they only really use it when their heats hit with a wide, imposing knot just over the hefty sac at the base.  Viktor bought it, but it’s not really his. He prefers Yuuri, always prefers Yuuri, and Yuuri has the stamina to outlast even the most intense waves of Viktor's cycle, so he gets more use out of the toy than Viktor does.  Yuuri sets it aside for now, pushing his glasses up on his nose and staring down at Viktor.

  


Yuuri is hard already, probably has been ever since he scent marked Viktor.  It’s difficult to look away from the flushed, shining tip of his crown where it’s peeking out of his foreskin.  Viktor licks his lips, wants nothing more than to fall forward and take it into his mouth, to make Yuuri feel good.  

  


Yuuri reaches out and lifts Viktor’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, and Viktor forces his eyes up.  Yuuri’s cheeks are pink, not as bright as Viktor’s face, but the sign of his heat coming on is unmistakable.  His scent is changing, too, going thicker, sweeter, and Viktor breathes it in, holds it in his lungs.  _ Mine,  _ he thinks, but he can’t act on it, can’t do anything but sit there and twist in place.  The sweater is hot, and it’s everywhere, and Viktor hates it with every fiber of his being.

  


“You’re wet, aren’t you?” he asks, and Viktor exhales rough, gives a little nod.  “I can smell it, how ready you are for me. Soaked through your clothes with slick, too bad you aren’t going to need it, mmm?”  

  


Yuuri takes his free hand and traces the edges of the cutout on Viktor’s chest, stopping to tease his nipples, pinching them, rolling them between his fingers.  Palms one of Viktor’s pectorals, squeezing it hard, and Viktor pants, and squirms.

  


“Think I’ll just…”  

  


Yuuri trails off, sliding his hand down and easing it between Viktor’s thighs.  Past his sac, and Viktor spreads his knees to make room, lifts his hips. Yuuri slips two of his fingers under the wet silk of the panties and presses them into Viktor, and his head falls back a little, as much as Yuuri will allow with his grip on Viktor’s chin.  Viktor arches, and shakes. There’s no resistance where Yuuri is pushing in, no pain, no stretch.

  


Just slick, and desperation, Viktor’s body opening around Yuuri eagerly.  Yuuri fingers him slowly, and Viktor lets his arms drop, splays his palms on the kneeler behind him to hold himself up.  It’s good, it’s too good, and Viktor doesn’t know why Yuuri is taking pity on him so quickly, but he’s not going to complain.  This is what Viktor needs, and he’s already so close, muscles trembling as he rockets toward orgasm. Yuuri hooks his fingers, and drags them along Viktor’s prostate, and he mewls, and— 

  


Yuuri withdraws, leaving Viktor gasping and quaking, right on the edge of climax.  The noise he makes is punched out and pathetic, accusatory, and Viktor can’t help the baleful look he throws Yuuri’s way.

  


“Did you really think I’d reward bad behavior?” Yuuri asks, eyes glowing with mischief behind the lenses of his glasses, voice lilting and amused.  “I just needed to borrow some of this.”

  


He releases Viktor’s chin and holds his hand up, and it’s filthy with Viktor’s slick.  Coating his fingers, dripping down his wrist. Viktor’s still glaring when Yuuri scoots to the edge of the lounge, lifting one leg up to plant a heel there, until he is wide open and on display.

  


Totally exposed, a beautiful sight.

  


A banquet that Viktor is forbidden from tasting.

  


Then Yuuri presses those same two fingers into himself, using Viktor’s slick to open himself up, and Viktor makes a choked noise in the back of his throat.  Yuuri’s breath comes faster as he works himself, and it’s only a few frenzied pumps of his fingers before he’s easing a third in, Viktor’s slick making the slide easy.  More than lubricant ever could, the natural makeup of it relaxing Yuuri’s muscles, until he’s just as loose and ready as Viktor. He’ll be making his own soon, be leaking slick, and Viktor loves it.

  


How Yuuri’s thighs get wet as he takes him, the unapologetic way he mounts a toy before sitting Viktor on his cock.

  


Viktor’s hands come around to his thighs now, and he digs his fingertips into the meat of them to keep from touching himself, sleeves of his sweater trailing through the mess he’s made.

  


Yuuri’s breathing harder and harder, rocking down onto his fingers, straining to reach his prostate.  To reach further, to tease deeper, that secondary barrier within him that he won’t be able to breach quite yet.  Not with his cycle barely triggered.

  


One that is aching inside Viktor, begging to be stretched and used and filled.

  


When his movements start to get frantic Yuuri slides his fingers free and picks up the toy, wiping the excess slick off onto the tip and down the shaft.  He wastes no time, nudging the crown carefully into himself and throwing his head back with a moan. It disappears into him a few inches, and Yuuri eases it back out a bit before pressing in deeper.  Bit by bit, and then he’s taking it down to the knot, everything but the swollen base. 

  


Yuuri lays back against the chair, chest rising and falling rapidly as he fucks himself on the dildo.  His thighs twitch, and his free hand sinks into his hair, runs down his neck— over his mate mark, across his collarbones.  He palms his cock, spine bowing as he strokes it, wrist moving faster as he high pitched little whimpers pour from his throat.

  


“Vit-” he starts, cutting himself off with a moan, eyelashes fluttering, “Vitka, it’s so good, fuck.”

  


It’s like dying of starvation, and watching someone feast, yet being denied even the most pitiful of scraps.

  


Viktor keens, unable to tear his eyes away, nails digging crescent shaped marks into the pale skin of his thighs.  He’s so empty, and it yawns wider and wider within him, demanding to be soothed. His feet slip through the mess of his slick underneath him as he writhes in place, the silk against his cock giving him constant friction that miles away from being enough.  Precome oozes from his crown, soaks into his panties until they’re nearly transparent, totally unsalvageable. The sweater is harder to ignore the more he shifts and rocks, nipples red and swollen from the cutout rubbing over them, Viktor sweating beneath the stifling fabric.

  


He can’t get enough air in his lungs, and Viktor’s fucking forward into nothing, shivering uncontrollably.  His instincts are surging up, panicked and confused, unable to make sense of what’s happening. Yuuri is there, so why is he not touching him, not kissing him?

  


Why is he not biting into Viktor’s throat and taking him, just the way he needs?

  


It’s too much, and there are tears in Viktor’s eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks.

  


He’s wet, and he wants, and Viktor moans as the toy’s knot pops into Yuuri at last, stretching his rim wide.  It’s obscene, and Viktor stares as Yuuri pulls the knotted base out and shoves it back in again. Yuuri jerks like a puppet with his strings cut, eyes rolling back in his head.

  


_ “Vitka,”  _ Yuuri whimpers, and that’s it, Viktor’s gone.

  


He comes untouched into ragged silk, hips rocking as he shudders his way through it, fresh slick dripping out of him with every pulse of seed.  It’s unsatisfying, and instead of bringing him any relief it sharpens the edge of his need into something viciously unmerciful. 

  


Yuuri looks up, watches Viktor shake out the last of his orgasm, and he knows what he looks like, what a mess he’s become.  Viktor’s cock is so hard it hurts, and want throbs through him with every beat of his heart, toes curling and sliding against the leather of the kneeler.  The fabric of the sweater is oppressive, and his nipples are inflamed from the unending scrape of its edges. His hair is wild around his face, cheeks blushing dark, lips bitten and shining with drool.

  


Viktor’s a wreck.  The skin over his glands feels like it’s on fire, and he  _ needs,  _ and Yuuri, fuck, Yuuri is breathtaking, heat flushed and vital and flawless.

  


“Please, sir,” he says on autopilot, and it comes out slurred, Viktor’s mouth refusing to obey him.

  


“Oh, Vitka,” Yuuri says.  Like a prayer, like a promise, and he pulls the toy out of himself and lets it drop to the floor.  He tosses his glasses aside, and Viktor likes that, it’s a good sign, it means Yuuri’s not fucking around anymore.

  


Then Yuuri’s pulling the sweater off over Viktor’s head, and the cool air on his skin is so good he almost cries.  Yuuri coaxes him onto his feet, and Viktor follows, loose limbed and pliant, willing to go wherever Yuuri puts him.  

  


He ends up face down on the lounge with his knees on the floor, and Viktor raises his hips as high as he can, and tilts his head to the side.  It not a conscious decision.

  


It’s all instinct, Viktor’s body desperately trying to get what it needs.

  


_ Take me, Yuuri, I’m yours. _

  


Yuuri jerks Viktor’s panties halfway down his thighs, and as soon as he’s exposed Viktor feels like he can breathe again, like he’d been suffocating unawares.  Normally Yuuri would play with him a while, would eat him out and finger him open, make Viktor beg. 

  


But Viktor wasn’t articulate enough to beg right then, not beyond mumbling out  _ please please please,  _ and he was already doing that, could feel his lips moving around the word again and again.

  


“Shhh, it’s okay, precious,” Yuuri says, one hand gripping Viktor’s hip, and he knees Viktor’s thighs apart, and sinks into him.  There’s a moments pause as Yuuri carefully breaches that second, tighter place inside Viktor, one that is only open during his heat.  Yuuri catches on it, pushes forward, and Viktor sees stars.

  


It’s absolutely everything, and Viktor groans, reaching backwards to grab at Yuuri to try and force him deeper.  Yuuri is perfect inside him, revelatory, and Viktor is still babbling nonsense, profanities and Yuuri’s name, shaking like he’s trying to come apart.

  


There are long fingers in his hair then, and Yuuri tugs his head to the side, and sinks his teeth into Viktor’s mark.

  


It’s like a switch has been flipped, Viktor going from frantic to languid in an instant.  He’s still alive with want, but it’s less frantic, less panicked. Everything’s okay, Yuuri’s there.

  


Yuuri’s teeth are in him, and he can’t go anywhere that way, has to stay right next to Viktor, has to take care of him.  

  


There is nothing as intimate as Yuuri holding him down with his bite and fucking him open, and Viktor relaxes into it, and lets go.

  


Yuuri takes him rough, keeps his teeth sunk in and grabs Viktor’s hips, jerking him back onto his cock with every thrust.  He’s growling into Viktor’s skin, and it’s nothing like an alpha’s growl, nothing guttural or deep. It’s a purr, more than anything else, vibrations rumbling through him.  An omega’s croon, and Viktor preens inside, giddy like it’s the first time he’s ever heard it instead of the hundredth.

  


Like he’s only just realizing he’s Yuuri’s, and the sense of being precisely where he’s meant to be is heady and overpowering.

  


The sense of belonging, and Viktor comes again, a wave rolling over him that he’s powerless to stop.  His fingers tremble where they clutch at Yuuri, pawing blindly behind him, and he croons back. 

  


He loves Yuuri, he loves him, and he needs him to know, needs—

  


Yuuri releases his bite, movements going uneven as he ruts into Viktor and murmurs soft into his throat.

  


“Love you too, love you,” and Viktor has been speaking aloud without noticing, but it’s okay.

  


Yuuri loves him.

  


Yuuri comes, and comes, and comes, holding onto Viktor like his life depends on it.  It’s not his own orgasm that finally soothes the raw lust in Viktor, but the feeling of Yuuri filling him up in warm bursts.  They rock together, Yuuri grinding into him long after his climax has faded back like he can’t quite help himself. Even when he’s gone soft he doesn’t pull out, pressing three of his fingers into Viktor alongside his cock instead and crooking them.  Stretching him, simulating a knot, keeping his come inside Viktor as best he can. 

  


It’s not incredibly efficient, but it has Viktor crooning again, calm and content as the worst of his heat briefly ebbs back.  Yuuri pets down Viktor’s side with his other hand, and then he finds Viktor’s own, and laces their fingers together. Brings it up to his mouth, and kisses Viktor’s knuckles, rubs them absently over his throat.

  


“Tell me,” Viktor says, reaching back to bury his fingers in Yuuri’s hair.  He pulls him forward, forcing Yuuri’s face against his mark, and Yuuri doesn’t fight it.  Sucks lazily at the bite he’s left behind there, until it’s dark under his mouth, the first of many Viktor will be wearing by the time they are through.

  


“You’re exquisite.  You’re gorgeous, and you did so well, and I’m going to take such good care of you, love.”

  


The praise is liquid, and it flows into Viktor like water, washing over every inch of him.  Yuuri presses soft kisses everywhere he can reach, and lets Viktor bask in quiet and stillness while he’s able.  It doesn’t last. Before long he’s rutting back onto Yuuri’s fingers, all warmth and wetness and helpless little whines.

  


Yuuri withdraws, and Viktor whimpers in complaint.  Only for a moment, though, because Yuuri crouches behind him.  Tugs his cheeks apart, and shoves his face between them, shamelessly licking up his come and Viktor’s slick.  Slow, and patient, moaning at the taste of them together, and he wraps his arms around Viktor’s thighs and settles in like he plans to stay there a while.  

  


Viktor lets himself go boneless, drifting in the haze of sensation, because he doesn’t have to do anything here.  Doesn’t have to move, doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have try. 

  


Yuuri’s there, and everything is fine.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Give me nice words, fam. Several, even.


End file.
